


Pressing Forward

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Community: trope_bingo, Gen, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world went to shit, Frank was separated from his friends. So, now he's trying to find them. It just so happens he's not the only one looking for lost friends. Which would be a good thing if that person wasn't Ryan.</p>
<p>Whatever, Frank'll deal if it means working together finds them their friends quicker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressing Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the trope_bingo prompt magic.
> 
> I want this to be a series but I don't know if that will end up happening.

“Incantus windeum blah blah, yaddity yaddity.” Frank shakes his hand before flexing his fingers so the bullets can drop out of his hand to the table, and the cloth he spread out especially for them. You don’t mess around with magical bullets unless you’re willing to take the proper precautions.

Such as having an enchanted cloth and making damn sure you don’t have the exploding bullet prototype. HQ’s made that mistake before. Handing out prototypes by accident, instead of the standard issue gear. It was a clusterfuck no one likes to talk about.

After a few seconds of contact with open air - boarded up, abandoned hotel air because like fuck is Frank doing magic out in the open - the bullets go from a dull silver color to a faint blue hue.

“Fucking yatzee. Told you, that’s easy shit, man. Pay up.”

Ryan doesn’t even look up from his knives. “Only when we know if the speed enhancements drop the muddies quicker. That was the bet. Not me listening to your butchered spellcasting.”

His voice is droll. Bored. Like he didn’t fucking bet Frank a whole month’s worth of coin credits on this newest spellwork giving them a higher kill rate.

“It’s not like I actually have to say a damn word. I thought all circus folk enjoyed theatrics.”

Ryan’s paying his damn blades more attention than Frank but that doesn’t mean Frank’s new to Ryan Ross’ body language. The fucker’s rolling his eyes and being silent on purpose. Generally speaking, he’s being a dick on purpose.

Whatever. Frank can play that game. Ask HQ. On any given day there’s bound to be a handful of people around who’d vouch for Frank’s asshole status. He’s fucking _certain_ that’s the reason he got Ryan when pair-ups happened.

No one else wanted to work with an arrogant, ex-circus knife thrower. Not that Frank got a choice. He was told it was unsafe to hunt the muddies without a partner. If he decided to freelance that was his choice but he damn well wasn’t going to get paid and he wasn’t going to have HQ’s resources at his disposal.

Magic only goes so far. Sure, it renews itself but without rations, supplies, and weapons what good is it for more than protection against the rain? If Frank wanted to find his friends then he was stuck with Mr. Pretentious.

On the plus side, Ryan was also looking for friends. Which isn’t a stretch of the imagination by any means. When the _Change_ happened whole cities were lost. Where magic was once an uncommon curse, it’s now sought after.

Coveted.

HQ utilizes whatever it can to its advantage. Including magic users. When the world went from international to within walking distance in a fortnight federal governments no longer mattered. Everything went to regional jurisdictions.

The internet doesn’t work. Yet, if you’re in a city the electricity still does. There’s running water. It’s civilization fighting tooth and nail with the encroaching forests for survival. 

The past and present tangling for supremacy.

If a murder of muddies gets into a town or city, that’s it. Once you’re overrun, they take over. HQ sends out groups to patrol farms. Keep the livestock and crops from being eradicated.

Frank didn’t sign up for that. He doesn’t want to be a glorified guard dog. That does nothing for his new life goals.

He answered the advertisement for scouting and muddie disposal. He was given two weeks worth of training. When it became apparent that he wasn’t exaggerating his natural magic and apparently had a hidden knack for firearms they issued him a rifle and a handgun.

Then he was shoved into a room with Ryan. That had been a _lovely_ day. Neither of them wanted someone else slowing them down. Frank didn’t want a partner who didn’t like people and had trouble remembering where his water bottle was.

Ryan didn’t want an asshole who had no concept of what personal space was and what private personal information meant. Frank didn’t care, he just kept prodding until he got answers. It made for a very exciting fight at HQ after their third trip out. 

They bring in the highest number of muddie tongues. Regularly. HQ might hate them, but they’re good at what they do.

Muddies are hard fuckers to kill with conventional weapons. That is, they are if you don’t have spells and enchantments to your advantage. A regular old bullet barely does anything to them. They’re like the werewolves of legend, just heal right up.

But, if you spell a bullet or knife blade to always hit its mark. Push magic into the object until it _knows_ exactly where to hit. Then you have a fighting chance of killing one of the fuckers.

That doesn’t make it easy. Or fun. Those fuckers have sharp-ass teeth. It’s like being mauled by an opossum-like dog the size of a healthy toddler.

Muddies aren’t solitary, either. They’re pack creatures. Murders of muddies range from a dozen to several dozen. No one knows where they came from, what their mating habits are, or if they have masters.

Frank’s betting on them being the foot soldiers for someone like the Goblin King from _Labyrinth_. Ryan argues the point with him, regularly. It’s another bet they have.

Ryan’s betting they never find anything to support Frank’s claims. They have five years to find _something_. A castle, a medieval village, hell, even fucking elves would work. Anything that points to Frank being right.

That somehow, some weird-ass Guillermo Del Toro fantasy world decided on conquesting theirs.

Until that bet’s settled, they hole up in motels, houses, and buildings that have been abandoned by their occupants in favor of not being eaten by the forever encroaching forests. They kill muddies. Collect their trophies. Go back to HQ for their credits and a few days of rest.

Above all else. They keep looking.


End file.
